Page 7 of Homestead

I meet some other people too. There seems to be an awful lot of them hanging around and waiting for dinner. Greta shows me a big room that can sleep eight people. She leads me to a twin bed in the far corner, and it looks perfectly fine to me. She shows me the outhouse and the basin and jug in the bedroom for washing up. Next on the tour is the kitchen, and she asks if I’ll help with trimming beans.

I say yes. Of course I do. But I don’t actually know how to do it. Any of it. Grandpa’s cabin had a solar generator that powered lights and the basic appliances we needed. He also rigged up the plumbing so I could pump well water into the sink or into the toilet or into the shower.

None of it works the same way here. As the sun gets lower, they light candles and lanterns. They can pump water into the kitchen sink but not any of the other rooms. And I’ve never trimmed beans in my life, but a younger woman named Nicky shows me how.

I’m exhausted. Still shaky from a drop in adrenaline. And I haven’t even come close to processing the fact that Grandpa is dead.

When I cut my finger as I work on the beans, the drop of blood reminds me of the blood gushing from my grandfather’s neck.

I’m hit by wave after wave of dizziness and nausea. A tidal wave of grief that I’m barely holding at bay. My fingers tremble so much I have to stop using the knife for fear of doing even more damage.

I breathe slow and deep. I need to get it together. Greta asked me to do these beans, so I’ve got to finish them. If I don’t earn my keep, I might get turned out into the dark with nowhere to go and no one to help me.

“Why the hell are you doin’ that?” The question is gruff and right behind me. So sudden it makes me jump.

I turn around dazedly and see Jimmy glowering at me. I swallow hard so I can answer. “Your… Your mom asked me to…”

He reaches out to take the knife out of my limp hand, then drops the bean I was holding back into the big bowl. “You can’t be doin’ chores right now. You can barely stand up.”

“I can too!” I’ve resolved to myself not to argue with anyone. To just go along with everything anyone says or wants me to do so they’ll like me and hopefully keep me safe. But this is outrageous.

I’m on the verge of collapse here, and he’s bossing me around.

“You been through trauma.” He’s still frowning deeply, but I can’t tell if I’m really the target of that expression or not. “You’re white as a ghost. You’re gonna faint again any minute.”

“I am not!” My tone is far more confident than is entirely warranted. Fainting feels like a real possibility.

He ignores me. He strides to the door of the kitchen and sticks his head out, calling, “Mom, Chloe’s sick. I’m taking her outside!”

I make a gurgling sound. A couple of tears slip out of my eyes and run down my cheeks. I try to resist when he turns me around and puts a hand on my back to push me toward the back door that leads outside from the kitchen, but I have neither the strength nor the will to resist.

He makes me sit down on the back stoop and pushes my head down toward my knees.

My whole body starts to shake, and there’s no way I can make it stop.

I manage to keep my sobs silent, but Jimmy’s got to know I’m crying. He’s sitting right there beside me, and he keeps his hand flat between my shoulder blades.

He doesn’t say anything or expect me to talk to him. I’m not sure how long I cry like that, but it has to be at least several minutes.

When I’ve finally quieted down, he mutters, “Mom’s always believed that staying busy helps. That’s why she gave you those beans to do.”

“I was doing them fine,” I choke out. It’s ridiculous—nonsense—that I feel so obsessed about that fact, but I can’t help but defend myself.

“Don’t matter. You shouldn’t have to. Not today.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I wipe my face with the sleeves of the zip-up hoodie I’m wearing and finally manage to straighten up.

“I’m not helpless,” I tell him, once again focused on that irrelevancy.

“Never said you was.”

“You were thinking it.”

“You really think you can read my mind?”

No. I can’t. He’s a stranger to me still, and it’s hard to even read his face beneath so much hair. I sniff a couple of times. “If your folks are gonna give me a place to stay, I want to work to earn my place.”

“Plenty of chores to do. But you don’t gotta do ’em today. Be better to get your bearings and… and process stuff.”

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